


Death and the Doctor

by ZenzaNightwing



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, How Do I Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 12:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenzaNightwing/pseuds/ZenzaNightwing
Summary: Death likes the ones who resist, who persist, who don't back down and never give up. She likes the stubbornest, the ones who have the nerve to run away from even her. So she takes a mildly terrified Doctor Strange under her wings with no hesitation.Stephen is just rolling with the punches.





	

 

 

Dr. Stephen Strange, MD and Neurosurgeon, was a normal – if slightly gifted – individual. He had a photographic memory and a knack for shoving emotions away, a thing that had always come naturally to him, but had been drilled in more harshly at his time in med school and shadowing other doctors. Emotions were a weakness in the field of medicine, because if you were affected by all the deaths and tragic accidents and long recovery periods that had to be told to family members, then you were too weak to deal with the lives you were saving.

 

And of course, like every normal, sane human being, he feared Death. Who wouldn't?

 

Death was an endless crossroad, an uncharted territory a- what was that quote? Ah yes, _The undiscovered country_. Death was a thing that haunted him through every turn of the hallway, the terror and rush of adrenaline he got when the patient started flatlining, because Death wasn't terrifying to him because he himself was afraid of it finding him.

 

He was afraid of it because it meant _failure_.

 

Failure was the unthinkable, and to keep away from any sense of failure, he saw his patients as meaningless faces and rising numbers, rather than the people that they were, the lives they could lead. That way, if something so impossible as failure did happen, he would see it as just that: A personal failure. If he thought, if he _remembered_ that they were dealing with human beings, not possible values and stepping stones for his career, then every slight mistake he'd make would bear down on him relentlessly.

 

So yes, he feared Death, because Death was the ultimate failure, the most severe reprimand he could ever get for his mistakes.

 

But for all his worrying, for all his careful distancing, he never thought for one second that he would fear it for himself.

 

 

 

Dr. Stephen Strange, MD and ex-neurosurgeon was barely spared a glance by anyone, and if they did give him one, it was always one of disgust.

 

He had gone from the highest of highs, straight down to rock bottom. He had been successful, rich, important, he'd saved lives from the impossible.

 

But now he was a helpless, shaking, bearded man, hair grown long and shaggy from his inability to shave or cut his hair. He was nothing, but even worse than nothing. He was a disgrace, plain and clear, an embarrassment to the field of medicine, a walking, talking mistake.

 

And, unlike most, he wasn't entirely sure if he feared Death anymore.

 

If he did, then he no longer cared about anyone but himself. Mistakes meant nothing, all he had to do was fix himself, fix his biggest mistake, and then he could worry about replacing the holes in his damaged reputation. All he had to do was correct himself, fix himself, and that would be enough for him for a moment. Failure was only loosely held in his shaking, trembling hands, and his heart may be in to saving himself, but his body wasn't.

 

And maybe he did he feared Death, because this was the first time in his insignificant scrap of Life that he realized how thin the barrier was between Life and Death.

 

With his obsession, an all-consuming need to repair and to right the wrongs, he never stopped to think if he should worry for others.

 

 

 

Dr. Stephen Strange, MD, ex-neurosurgeon, and Apprentice of the Ancient One was turning into someone far, far from normal. He was slinging orange energy like it was included in his medical textbooks, using magic with a kind of cautious ease that came from an experienced learner.

 

And, like every Apprentice, he feared Death. Not just for him, but for everyone.

 

If the Sorcerers fell, then so would the Apprentices and Acolytes, soon followed by the world, like one deadly game of dominoes. He had reasons to fear, of course. Death was always a motivator, it was what kept them all alive, kept them surviving, trying to outrun its sweet, tender kiss. He feared the possibility, not of full-erasure of the mind and soul, not of rebirth, not of the potential suffering for all eternity, but rather an apathetic, uncaring world that slowly descended into entropy.

 

So, of course, he feared Death, because of the seemingly endless possibilities of what laid beyond the grave, because it could spell out the end or start a new beginning, and he would just be _gone_.

 

With his nose stuck in books, trying to figure out the best ways to protect himself and others, he never considered that he would have to sacrifice one of those ideals one day.

 

 

 

Doctor Stephen Strange, MD, ex-neurosurgeon, Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the New York Sanctum and Avenger was beyond such descriptions as 'weird' 'crazy' 'abnormal' and 'insane', since he operated on a much higher plane of madness than most. He had stared Dormammu in the eyes and _laughed,_ he had killed someone on the astral plane, claimed the Cloak of Levitation, became a Master of a Sanctum, inherited the title of Sorcerer Supreme and broke several Laws of Nature in just seventy-two hours. Avenger was the newest and probably least useful of his titles.

 

And unlike everyone else, he didn't fear Death one bit.

 

Everyone, no matter how hopeless, how suicidal, always feared Death a tiny bit, it could just be that they feared Life more than Death. But fear was still there. Stephen was different in that he was intimately familiar with the soft entanglement of Death's hands, the gentle kisses she laid on the foreheads of her reaped souls, the delicate way she let him go as he returned back to a regenerated body, ready to bargain again.

 

Some may say they hold no fear in Death, and all of the Avengers – with the exception of Bruce and Thor – had been brought back from the edge of Death before, eyes wide and dangerous. But all of them still held fear in their hearts, still felt the pang of anxiety every time Death wound her lithe form around one of them. Stephen never felt that, every time he was brought back from the edge, every time one of them fell in battle, because time itself rested over his heart, and he could save them. If he couldn't save himself, that was a price he could pay.

 

Besides, no matter how hasty of a time loop he set up before he 'died', Death was always there to guide him back with a secret smile on her lips. Even when he'd been killed suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, Death had pushed him back, soft but insistent.

 

He was covered in well-hidden scars from Dormammu, wreathed and decorated with the the pale marks of Death, etched with the testaments of pain and what lay Beyond. It took some creative spellwork and glamours to keep them hidden during checkups.

 

He hadn't felt any particular fear of Death when he set up his time loop, knowing what was about to happen. He didn't fear Life or Death, in fact he didn't fear much at all. Death would always push or pull or tug him back to the world, to the point where the Avengers considered him either immortal or indestructible.

 

Still, Natasha was surprised to enter the gym and find him sitting in the middle of the mats she usually used for her yoga and practice movements. Stephen idly skimmed her surface thoughts, sloshing it around slightly, looking for anything interesting before dumping it back in. “Natasha,” He greeted, and Natasha nodded in his direction, giving a sour look toward the boxing ring in the back, where she'd have to practice, “I was hoping to help you train today.”

 

Natasha mentally scoffed at that, but her face was as passive and neutral as ever, “Dr. Strange, I doubt you'd be able to keep up without any of your weapons since we're doing hand-to-hand today.”

 

Stephen smiled pleasantly and uncurled his legs, standing up and slipping over to one end of boxing ring she'd been eying earlier, “I'm not talking about you helping me train. I understand that even the bots Stark make aren't quite as similar to humans as you like, and you're running into a bit of a snag when you want to practice your more lethal techniques.”

 

Natasha tilted her head, thoughts questioning before she came to the realization. “Alright,” She said, walking onto the mats, “But when you're done, make sure to tap out.”

 

Stephen opened the Eye, the time loop circling his wrist.

 

Natasha lunged, and it began.

 

Twenty-seven deaths later, Stephen finally tapped out, the time loop closing itself off and fizzling away. Natasha reached down and Stephen grabbed her hand, pulling himself up, hands trembling slightly less than normal, “Thanks.” Natasha whispered, eyes darting around to ensure no Avengers would get wind of that single breathed word.

 

Polite clapping echoed through the empty training room, and both Avengers spun around. Death was sitting in a folding chair at the edge of the mats, blue lips turned up in slight amusement, “I've seen worlds die,” She started, voice low and gentle as She adjusted silver-streaked hair with a gloved hand, “I've claimed souls of some of the most innovative and interesting people and creatures out there, and yet _you,_ Doctor Strange, never cease to be the most entertaining thing here.”

 

She sat up from the chair, black dress swirling around Her bare feet as She took a careful step onto the mats, pale chin held regally as She stared at them with the million dying stars in Her eyes. “Lady Death,” Steven greeted lowly, sweeping into a bow as She silently whispered over the floor, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Death's lips turned up in an amused smile, black feathered wings quivering slightly. “Doctor Strange,” She drawled in return, “Do I need to have any reason to visit my favorite? I'm here because the dead are _dreadfully_ boring, and you seemed very intent on visiting my realm for those scant few seconds.”

 

Stephen tilted his head in consideration, and Death brought up Her gloved hand, cold fingers settling on his cheek. Strange was taller than most, but one of Death's favored forms was this one, coming in at 6'7 with delicate, willowy features making Her seem much taller. “If I intruded somewhere you did not wish me to, I apologize. It was not my intention to-”

 

A light laugh interrupted his words, and Death pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead. Her small gestures of affection were never very romantic, they were more of a friendly and regular nature. “Doctor Strange,” She chided, stepping back and staring at him meaningfully, “You are a welcome friend of my realm. Your mother has told me to tell you that she is proud of who you have become. If you ever need a place to lay low, the Doors of Death are always open for you, Doctor.”

 

Stephen smiled and bowed his head, “Thank you, Lady Death.”

 

Death stepped away, snapping Her fingers to conjure a portal, and Her wings swept at Her sides as She walked forward with purpose before delicately turning Her neck. “Oh, and do tell Lady Maximoff that her brother sends his regards, would you?”

 

Strange nodded again, sardonic smile ghosting over his face, “As My Lady commands.” He drawled, and Death laughed again before stepping back through the portal, wingtips disappearing through and portal shutting in a swirl of ash right as Stark ran through the door, gauntlet on his hand, Wanda zooming in next to him, eyes narrowed.

 

He panted and glared at Stephen, hands on his knees, “Alright, who the hell was that?”

 

Stephen gave a vague smile and his cloak floated from the corner to wrap around his shoulders protectively. “Lady Death, Reaper of Souls, Queen of the Dead, Empress of Hellfire, The Nightshade Angel, Guardian of Lost Spirits. Also my best friend.” He swept out of the room, cloak swirling dramatically even though there wasn't the slightest breeze around, “Oh, Wanda, she says that your brother sends his regards.”

 

 

 

Stephen was not risking returning to the tower. It already had enough property damage, and even though he could fix it, he'd rather not risk the people of New York getting caught up in this mess any more than they already were. Both Stark's side and Rogers' side had teamed together, but it wasn't going to be enough. They were all tired and desperate, and they needed a place to lay low.

 

Stephen knew exactly where.

 

“Everyone, if you wouldn't mind taking a few steps back, that would be lovely.” Everyone ran back ten steps, clearing a wide radius, and Stephen smiled, “Thank you!”

 

He raised his hands and they flitted in a familiar pattern, the yawning black gate appearing in front of him, edged by heavy obsidian columns and a tasteful arch. There was a single second as the portal stabilized itself, and then Death was walking out of it, Her hips sliding from side to side, jostling the woven deep purple scarf that wrapped around Her waist slightly, a Christmas gift from Stephen.

 

“Lady Death,” He started, the title less of a formality now, and more a nickname, “Pleasure to see you again. I see you liked the scarf.”

 

“Doctor Strange,” She returned, arms idly swinging back and forth, rustling the sleeves that rested on Her shoulders and dripped down Her biceps like black honey, “I could say the same about you. And yes, this scarf is lovely. Thank you very much.”

 

“My pleasure, I'm sure,” Stephen said, tone getting much more serious, “May me and my friends take refuge in your dimension to recuperate? I'm afraid we've caused too much trouble in this dimension for the time being, and I'd hate to break too many of the Laws.”

 

Death clucked Her tongue in a motherly way, “Now, now, Doctor. I did tell you that the Doors would always be open, and as long as you deem it fit, I will also provide safety for your friends. Lady Romanoff might want to stay out of the more corrupt areas of my dimension, however. Many of those she associated or gifted passage to reside in that rough area.”

 

She turned around, wings swaying with Her as She paraded back to the portal, glancing over Her shoulder and beckoning them. Stephen stepped forward, merrily whistling, and backed into the portal, gesturing for the others to follow. Slowly, they shrugged and trickled through, passing through the dark surface like it was molasses.

 

They all hopped out at relatively the same time, despite some of the long pauses between their entrances. Death's head snapped up and She gave a small wave before her form dissipated into black mist. Stephen hopped on one foot onto the next step in the dramatic stone staircase that the portal led onto, and he turned around with his arms outstretched and an air of showmanship surrounding him, “Welcome to Hell!” He cheerily announced, before turning back around and bounding up the steps, cloak swirling dramatically like the diva it was.

 

The others shrugged and started the long climb, before finding that twenty steps up another small portal dragged them up to the doorway of the menacing castle anyway. They glanced around, everyone on edge except for the very comfortable Stephen.

 

In fact, Sam noticed, he looked even more comfortable standing in front of this place than sitting on the couch in Avengers Tower. The tenseness that always followed him wherever he went seemed to disappear completely in the shadow of the colossal building, “Any second now...” he muttered, orange light dancing around his fingers.

 

As if summoned by his words, a blue flash gusted past them, the wind blowing their hair and clothing around, except for Stephen's cape, which remained resolutely untouched. The blue rushed past again, and the orange started writhing between his fingers. The blue made a final pass, and his orange struck, wrapping around the ankles of the figure and tripping them.

 

“Nice try,” Stephen said, like this had happened many times before, “But you're still a _little_ too slow to avoid me.”

 

A snort came from the figure on the ground, their pure silver hair and slightly see-through blue-tinted body sitting there as Strange removed the bonds on the person's ankles, “How,” the figure started, face still pressed into the ground, muffled voice heavily accented, “Am I still too slow? I'm the fastest one down here! I even raced one of Hela's horses and _won_. I refuse to believe I am not fast enough.”

 

“Oh no,” Strange replied, offering a hand down to the figure, “You're definitely fast enough. I just have insights into the near future and fast reflexes.” The figure laughed again, sounding incredibly familiar as he accepted the trembling fingers and dragged himself up, dusting invisible dirt off his glowing blue body.

 

The air went deathly still.

 

Wanda trembled like a leaf in a storm and everyone went white as a sheet.

 

Because Pietro Maximoff was happily bouncing on the balls of his feet, silver hair stark against his transparent body.

 

“Pietro...” Death's voice echoed from above as She floated down, wings folding back down flush against Her back, “Do be a dear and greet your sister, and the other Avengers for that matter. It's been a long while since they last saw you, and the last time they did was at a closed casket funeral because you were _riddled with bullet holes_. Idiot.” She said it all fondly, and went to stand next to Stephen, cloak extending its edge to brush against Her feathers as one of Her wings stretched out in greeting.

 

Pietro finally looked beyond Stephen and froze, doing an excellent impression of a deer in the headlights. Wanda was staring at him, hands trembling worse than Stephen's as they reached to cover her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks. Clint was doing an even better impression of a catfish, and the rest of the Avengers were staring back either worriedly or shocked.

 

Death calmly tapped Stephen on the shoulder and gestured for the roof, Stephen nodding in agreement as the two took flight, leaving behind the group that was rapidly descending into nothing but a swimming pool of tears.

 

“Sometimes,” Death started as She walked across the roof, bare feet padding gently on the tiles, “I forget that mortals who have lost and cared enter this dimension. That was why I liked you, I think. You just accepted it immediately, no doubts. You were ready to jump in willingly with so much to lose and with every fear of Death in you, and with next to no fear for Life. You were ready to sacrifice so much and accepted it without a thought, just like your mother and father.”

 

Stephen stared over Death's kingdom, Her influence spreading in dark tendrils under the ashy earth, wrapping its soft embrace over the land. “Well I guess it's genetic. My dad always did tell me this one story about a dark angel claiming souls. I just thought it was something that he used to ease me into my mother's death. I didn't think it had a ring of truth to it.”

 

Death hummed in agreement, Her galaxial eyes contradicting the regal tilt of Her chin with their gentle sympathy. “I always did take a liking to your family. I'm fairly sure the last name came from my frequent visits to your ancestors. Dimensional rules were looser then, but my frequent visits were rather... _Strange_.” She gave a conspiratorial wink and ushered him to the trapdoor in the roof, Her wings folding around Her like a cocoon for Her to slip into it.

 

They slipped from the tiny glamoured space into the bustling hallways of Death's castle, a thousand spirits moving and bustling about, careful to give a circle of space around the two figures. They conversed quietly about nothing in particular. Murmured greetings were exchanged as they bustled down the hallway. Death occasionally paused and sent out another copy of Herself, each one taking care of a certain part of the world.

 

By the time they made it to the foyer and opened the gates, the others had seemingly made their peace and were now exchanging stupid stories. They all looked up once the door open and Death stepped out, beckoning. She never seemed to talk to anyone but Stephen, unless what She said was meant for their ears only. Even then, most of Her correspondence was in written notes.

 

The foyer was bustling with spirits as well, but with a single wordless glance they all cleared out, the multicolored bodies either walking away or teleporting further. “Now,” Death said, smile on Her features as She spun around, small white fangs poking out behind blue-tinted lips, “What do you say to dinner?”

 

 

 

Two hours later, with Thor still mystified by Death, but entirely enamored by the constant flow of Asgardian alcohol and something even stronger from a source she said she 'dare not divulge.' Natasha was kicking it with some spirits of age old assassins, Rogers was talking to every historical figure and Founding Father he could recall off the top of his head, Stark was taking notes with Einstein and DaVinci, and Wanda was practically glued to her brother.

 

Sam had ran into Riley and they were laughing up a storm, Rhodes was talking quietly with his mother and father, Banner was talking with every scientist that came over to visit, Barton was kicking back shots as fast as he could get them and was actively searching for one person and ignoring everyone else, Vision was floating between Tony and Bruce's locations, Lang was talking to his dad and playing around with controlling the fire ants that seemed to follow Death in swarms.

 

T'Challa was staring sightlessly off in the distance while speaking to his entire incredibly extended and very much dead family, Barnes was shrinking under the table while he talked with his very sassy sister, and Parker was absentmindedly eating chicken nuggets while talking to his parents and uncle.

 

So far it was going great, though there had been some minor nervous breakdowns. Stark had long since given up on trying to understand any of it, so that was a plus.

 

Everything was going excellent until a spirit cleared her throat at the end of the table, and every gaze snapped to her. Silence follow her royal blue form, the other color allowed outside of her color scheme being the brilliant scarlet hat and her ruby red lips as she dropped a carefully ordered file on the arm of the throne, “Just as you specified, Lady Hela,” The British accent was strong as she held her head high, “I believe Strange may want to see it as well. Hello Steve.”

 

Death nodded in agreement, “Yes, thank you very much Peggy. Would you mind running down to the archives to search for the book on this? I'm afraid the sorting system is too much of a hassle for me to learn at the moment.”

 

“Really, Lady Hela?” Peggy Carter asked, bemused, “I guess I can't blame you. Dreadfully disorganized down there. I'll see you when I get my hands on it, then. Good day.” Her heels clicked against the tile as she called through the doorway, “Murdock, your son is being an idiot again. Be a dear and record it, I'd hate to miss that little slice of reality.”

 

Death simply smiled and sat back, delicate fingers rifling through the papers as the conversation slowly returned to normal. Maybe it was because the death was so fresh, but it took significantly longer than adjusting to their dead family members ever since processing that the dead were here.

 

Things got a little more rocky beyond that.

 

Maria Stark dropped in more quietly than Peggy had to drop off a file, Howard could be seen and heard running past the doors laughing maniacally with his steely gray form partially on fire, a couple of the dead girls from the Red Room popped in to give Death a kiss on the cheek, some others that Stephen didn't recognize or care to decipher from his group's surface thoughts, only that some got tense, angry, or incredibly sad on any occasion.

 

And then Stephen's night fell deeper in the pits of Hell than the castle usually plummeted.

 

Clint stumbled up, beer sloshing out of the red cup in his hands, the muted feeling of devastation in his mind warning Stephen that Clint was not happy, and he doubted this ensuing conversation would come quietly with no repercussions. “So!” He loudly announced, every head swiveling to the noise, “How exactly did you – Mr. Doctor Who – become friends with Death?”

 

Short murmuring from all the Avengers as they realized that none of them knew _how_. They knew that he was, given her frequent visits, but they didn't know when or where or in what circumstances Stephen had met Death.

 

Stephen's hands clenched as he shoved everything away, the fists quivering more than normal at his sides, and the ghosts were resolutely silent as they took a few quick steps backward. Clint didn't seem to notice this as he continued on, “'Cause, you haven't died as many times as us, really, have you? Shouldn't we be friends with her instead?” And that right there was what Stephen hated.

 

With every use of the time loops, he could only choose one being to be exempted from the loop, and that included AI's. Dormammu had been the one being the first time, the next time was no one in particular as he tried pushing the limits of his magic to see how far he could go before he fell to pieces, then it was Thor, then Loki, then Natasha. Death always knew, since She had technically transcended the title of 'being' long ago and turned into an omnipresence. So every time he died, only one person would know.

 

Natasha looked incredibly confused as she glanced around. She had seen him die before, done it herself many times, but she had never told anyone. Stephen knew that, but kept his silence, eyes cold and steely.

 

Death interrupted by clapping Her hands, picking up the files on the arm of Her throne, and standing up. Abruptly, everyone blinked, and every trace of alcohol disappeared, including the stuff coursing through their system.

 

“I believe that your villain has returned, now. Doctor Strange, my realm is still open to you.”

 

They quietly shuffled through the summoned portal, Stephen casting one last longing glance at the dark hallways before waving his farewell to Death.

 

The next day, Clint had a monster of a hangover while everyone else was seemingly perfectly fine.

 

In her dimension, Hela – or Death, as She was better known – smiled.

 

 

 

A couple days after their visit to Hell, Natasha cornered Stephen. “Strange,” She began, eyes icy cold but full of curiosity, “What was Clint talking about before? Answer truthfully, or I'll find out with less conventional methods.”

 

Stephen sighed and steepled his hands, wisps of green magic flicking down his arms. “I make Time Loops to avoid being fully trapped in Death's realm. Unfortunately, only one chosen being remembers them when I create them, and since I've never chosen Clint he doesn't remember. Death technically isn't a being anymore, She's much more, so She always remembers. Good enough for you?”

 

Natasha narrowed her eyes before exhaling heavily, sitting a bit further back. “Fine,” She snapped, “But still, how _did_ you meet Death that first time.”

 

Stephen, in response, stepped backward into the portal he'd been creating behind his back with the Sling Ring, shutting it closed even before Natasha could blink.

 

 

 

Tony tried to ask him the same question four days later.

 

“So, Harry Potter, what gives,” He asked, holding out a thing of apple slices for Stephen to grab, “How'd you meet that lovely lady down in the fiery depths?”

 

He turned away for a second to check one of his holograms, and by the time he spun back around, the bag of apples and the magician himself were nowhere to be found.

 

 

 

Bruce tried asking politely, but Stephen just shrugged it off and went back to his tea.

 

Vision asked for the sake of research, but Stephen promptly gave him a death glare and walked away.

 

Clint tried asking again, and suddenly found that his jug of milk and his toothpaste had been swapped in the night.

 

Sam asked because he was worried about his mental health, but Stephen gave him The Look™ and flew away.

 

Rhodes asked out of curiosity, but promptly found that Stephen had an impressive disappearing act.

 

Barnes didn't even ask, just sat down and raised an eyebrow, but soon found that he liked the plastered refrigerator magnets on his arm.

 

Parker asked with the naivety of a young child, too curious for his own good, and was left behind in a burst of air.

 

T'Challa just gave him a knowing look, and Stephen nodded.

 

Lang tried phrasing it as a joke, but very quickly found that swarms of fire ants get unruly when he was asleep.

 

Wanda gazed curiously from across the room but left it at that, thankfully.

 

Thor tried egging him into confessing it, but soon found that enhanced hangovers were not fun.

 

There were only three beings who knew what had happened in that dimension, and Stephen wasn't keen on telling anyone or anything else what had transpired there.

 

 

 

Every time Hela was asked, She would give a deadly smile filled to the brim with dark promises, and reply simply, “That is not my story to tell.”

 

Every Avenger asked Her, and no one found any answer but that.

 

 

 

The fourth person to know became aware of the fact in a routine checkup with Death sitting in. Stephen sat, bored on the examination table, shirt off and glamours on to hide the multitude of flowered scars that decorated his entire body, keeping his secret from everyone else.

 

Death was playing with the hellish 7x7 self-programming and self-sabotaging Rubik's cube that was one of Tony's most devious inventions yet. “Doctor Strange,” She said evenly, solving that hellspawn for the hundredth time, “Lady Cho can't do her job properly if you don't show her your medical problems. Idiot.”

 

Stephen glared at Her as she smiled, deft fingers swirling and twisting the infernal cube that deserved to be burnt down in Her realm. “I would rather not.”

 

Cho ran a device over his body, frowning at the readings, “You do realize if you're trying to hide something it could seriously compromise my report. Doctor-patient confidentiality, promise.”

 

Stephen glared back at Death, then glared at Cho, then sighed, flicking his fingers and dropping the glamour as he sat on the heels of his hands, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to look at the ceiling, thin lips betraying how much he didn't want to be doing this.

 

To her credit, Cho's eyes only widened a bit before she ran the device back over, looking much more relieved at the answer this time. “I don't know if you want me to do this or not, but I should mark down everything on your file. I'll let you keep it, as long as you let me know where to find it. I try to the best of my ability to keep you and the other Avengers away from the medical files, but in case I get called in for something, I'll need to know the placements and rough amount.”

 

Stephen nodded, and Cho gave a small, calming smile.

 

The final count was somewhere close two hundred and ninety-seven, but it was rather hard to count with the amount that crossed over. They were knotted over his torso and arms, twining and lumping together into barely distinguishable messes. Some were ridged on his forehead, and several were stretching across his throat.

 

In the end, Cho had a file only her and Strange could access, and never under duress, and Helen Cho had a new respect for the man in the red cloak.

 

 

 

The fifth person to see them was Bucky Barnes.

 

Bucky's mind was rebelling against itself, tearing itself down a destructive path, telling of the failures and the scars he would never be able to heal, the wounds he could never close, the lives he could never reclaim, the people he could never save. His mind was flinching, his soul a chaotic, disordered thing.

 

Stephen wouldn't stand for that.

 

So he plopped down in front of the Soldier, looked him straight in the eyes, and released his glamour. He knew that he had acquired a scar across his throat, another reminder of his death.

 

Bucky's eyes widened, and Stephen's cloak retreated from his shoulders, Strange carefully exposing the knotted explosion of scarred flesh. “You are not scarred, Barnes. You are scared. One r difference, I can see why you'd be confused.” The cloak reattached itself as he readjusted his clothing and stood up, perfectly composed.

 

Barnes never told anyone anything.

 

 

 

Thanos attacked the earth. The Infinity Stones swirled around and landed in his gauntlet as a grin split his ugly purple face. A swirl of his hand a vague point, and Stephen got vaporized. Everyone was shrieking as he raised his hand again, and his eyes glittered deeply with malice.

 

Only to widen as burning black magic coiled around his wrist and crumpled the gauntlet into nothing.

 

“ _ **Thanos Rex, Masterlord, the Mad Titan, Suitor of Death. You have made a grave mistake.”**_ the voice was deep and dark, filled with anger and beauty. It spoke of worlds crumbling, kingdoms destroyed, eviscerated eras, the flame of Life being snuffed out with a carefully practiced hand.

 

The ground bubbled and darkness leeched from the cracks, the Infinity Stones flying towards it as a figure stepped out. Her eyes were pure darkness as She glared coolly, cobalt and onyx flames licking Her double-braided hair, regal and willowy frame confident and deadly as She walked forward.

 

Her hand extended upward, and the ashes that used to be Stephen Strange reassembled, the soul stone glowing brightly as his soul returned to his body. She never paused as She advanced, dress swirling around Her feet while Her leg peeked out of the slit in the dress, long sleeves dripping off Her wrists. _**“There were many things that I allowed,”**_ She began, voice resonating across the world, **_“There were many things I couldn't change or prevent. But...”_** She glanced back at Stephen and Her smile turned devilish, _**“Now you hurt my chosen. I have full reign to do as I please.”**_

 

She flicked out a scythe, long and sharp, slightly curved and perfect for destruction. A hood lifted over Her features, masking everything except for the wicked, manic smile. _**“Ta-ta, darling. I'll see you in Hell. I'm sure your stay will be absolutely...”**_ She purred out Her words, smile growing as She pressed the edge of the scythe to Thanos's neck, _**“**_ **W o n d e r f u l .** _ **”**_

 

She slashed out and down, and the Mad Titan turned to formless ash.

 

Almost immediately, She shrunk down, scythe bursting into smoke and hood pulling back, hair going loose, eyes and smile losing their manic quality. “Stephen, are you quite alright?” Her hands carefully ran over his arms, taking stock of everything. She was quite the overbearing sometimes, but now the only thing in Her voice was justified worry and anxious fury.

 

“Yes, I am fine Hela. Honestly, it's like you don't have any patience with-” He hissed when Her fingers danced over a sore spot and Hela glared at him until he sighed and dropped his glamours.

 

“Oh please, I need all the patience in the dimensions to keep in contact with you. Pietro, _darling_ ,” she called, voice going dramatic for a second as the blue manifested next to Her, the speedster bouncing on the balls of his feet as he analyzed the situation in lightning fast flickers of his eyes, “Take care of the ashes. I'd hate for these to get into the wrong hands. Also, grab my crown, I think it's high time these returned back to their natural place.”

 

Pietro dashed in barely discernible loops of silver and blue, the dark, gritty substance that used to be Thanos wrapping up nicely in tacky skull wrapping paper and shoved in a shoe box, to be inevitably burned in hellfire. Another few loops, and Pietro buzzed back into existence, pure, reflective silver crown made of platinum and rhodium in his hands.

 

“Thank you. You can go have fun now. Go terrorize some pigeons, freak out some Astronauts, whatever. If you want to be productive there are some food and water packages that need fast delivery to Africa. If you don't Quill needs your help in Sector A5H93.” She picked the crown from his hands, holding the heavy thing effortlessly in Her grip as She calmly plucked each of the Infinity Stones from the air and clicked them into slots in the crown, black magic racing over each of them and locking into place.

 

She rested it in her hair, and sighed at the rush of power. Her wings unfurled, onyx feathers dancing with starlight and smile curling over her cobalt lips. Her voice switched back to that menacing, all-consuming thing it was before, echoing across the world, _**“I am inescapable, there is no person or place beyond my reach. I hold souls in the palm of my hand and care for every one of them. I may be the end, the final stop, but by all means, take the scenic route. Also, anyone who messes with Stephen Strange will face severe retribution. Best of luck to you all.”**_

 

Stephen sighed, hands shaking a little more than normal, closing his eyes and tilting his head up, inadvertently showing off the thick scar running around his neck. “Always so dramatic.”

 

Death hummed, wingtips dragging on the ground as she walked to the dark portal hovering in the air. “Pietro has three days on Earth if he wants them. I'll let a few others walk, too. Peggy's been _dying_ to give the Directors a piece of her mind, and I'll accompany her for the interrogation of Director Coulson. I have been curious what the glimpse of my realm did to someone with no magic in their blood.”

 

Stephen ignored Clint choking behind him, instead tilting his head and opening his eyes, “I'd take the deceased members of their team with you. Go all out with it.”

 

Death scoffed, turning to look over her shoulder, crown glinting in the dusty sunlight, “And you say I'm dramatic.”

 

“It takes one to know one.”

 

“Touche, Doctor Strange. Apologies, but I have a realm to rule. Good luck with the media backlash.” With that, She stepped through the portal, swirling into ash, dispersing into the wind.

 

Tony broke the silence after that, “I have so much respect for my PR people. I just hope this doesn't give them all serious health issues. Speaking of that, _sweet scars_ , mind sharing with the class, because they're badass and all but-”

 

“Stark.” Stephen's voice was pleasant as he wove the glamours back down and locked them down.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally went back and finished typing this thing up because I could. No idea when the next chapter for Breaking the Laws is coming out so can't help you there. I didn't have a beta so this is probably full of mistakes. Whoops. Well, enjoy this all the same.


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